Scenes: Franco and Elizabeth
by Tessaray
Summary: UNRELATED Friz ONE-SHOTS. #1 Contentment: a sweet bedtime story. #2 Light: Franco reacts to being a suspect in Kiki's murder. #3 Gophers: fluff to mark Groundhog Day. #4 Bad Dreams: A Re-imagining. Two months after Franco pleads guilty, Ryan stabs him and Jordan gets hers, Friz reckon with events. #5 Home Now. Franco's memories have been restored. Liz 1st person POV.
1. 1 Contentment

_**Scenes: Franco and Elizabeth**_

by _Tessaray_

* * *

 **#1** **Contentment**.

It's not a state Franco had been reaching for. It's something that has been laid over him gently, lovingly, just like a blanket when he was little. He remembers his mother tucking the silky hem under his chin at night, smoothing back his hair, kissing his forehead. He hadn't known then how precious, how short-lived that feeling of security would be… that feeling of utterly belonging to someone.

And then came Jim Harvey. And then came darkness.

Elizabeth still tucks Aiden in, did so with Jake until only recently and under protest, would love to tuck Cam in, but she doesn't dare. She laughingly confesses this to Franco as they get ready for bed one night, her lip trembling before she catches it between her teeth.

"Who tucked you in?" he asks, nonchalantly kicking off his slippers. He glances up at her silence — her eyes are wide, skin pale. She looks so stricken and childlike it's obvious to him that no one did... not regularly, anyway. Maybe no one ever had.

His heart aches as he comes around to her side of the bed, pulls back the covers, fluffs the pillows and gently takes her hand. She huffs, rolls her eyes, clearly embarrassed as he urges her down.

"Franco…"

"Shh. Let me do this for you," he says.

She settles onto the mattress with an air of impatience, arms stiff at her sides. "Okay fine," she grumbles. "Just for you."

One by one, he pulls up the sheet, the blanket, the comforter and lovingly arranges them around her small body. He feels her gradually relax, her gaze softening as she following his movements. He finds the silken hem of the blanket and tucks it under her chin... and by the time he's done smoothing her hair and kissing her forehead, tears are slipping from her bright eyes.

"It scares me how much I love you," she whispers.

He smiles gently, kisses her lips and sits on the bed by her side. He turns off the lamp and slips his hand under the covers to hold hers until she falls asleep... and beyond. Deep into the night he watches her beloved face, memorizes the subtle shifts and soft sounds she makes as she dreams, bathed in a splash of moonlight...

He'll carry this with him forever... this contentment. These precious moments of utterly belonging to someone...

No matter what may come.

 ** _-end-_**


	2. 2 Light

**Scenes: Franco and Elizabeth**

by _Tessaray_

* * *

 **#2** **Light**.

Franco is sitting on the cold floor of his studio, leaning back against his easel, a drawing pad in his lap. He's scratching charcoal across paper, frustrated that he's not quite getting her. It can't be that she's fading from his mind; it's been less than a month and he can see his Kiki clear as day — long blonde hair, sparkling eyes, dimples, a smile that made his lips quirk up, regardless of his mood. He always thought of himself as the photo negative of her, even before he knew her. He knew _of_ her… knew that where he was dark, she was light… and that was almost everywhere. He set that light before him and followed it for decades, as though he somehow knew he was stumbling in a black tunnel (though he didn't know then to call it madness) and there was a way out if he could just manage to keep his eyes on that light… that precious light...

No, it's not that he can't see her clearly, it's that his hand isn't working properly — it's bloody and broken. That's what happens when people accuse you of murdering your child — you hit something. And if you can't hit your accusers because they're idiot fucking cops, you punch a brick wall. And you don't punch a brick wall in public, you punch a brick wall in your own studio, alone, repeatedly, where you can't scare the people you love… where no one can hear your screams, no one can see your rage and your violence and the anguish that's been shredding your guts every moment of every day since that precious light went out. They see you, and they draw conclusions. They say you haven't changed, you can't change, you're the same animal you've always been… an animal who could murder his own child…

A heavy metallic sound... and light pours in from the hallway.

"Babe, my God, what is it…?"

Oh, it was dark in here. So dark. Maybe that's why he couldn't draw her. Maybe darkness was the problem…

"I can't get her," he rasps like dry leaves. The charcoal is streaking now through tiny wet spots on the paper. That's how he knows he's crying.

Elizabeth is on her knees beside him... her tender, savage love is reaching for him. "What happened? Tell me, please. Tell me everything." And he lets her gather him into her arms and rock him, bringing him back into the light, a light every bit as precious as the light he lost, a light so bright it destroys the darkness. And he hangs on, hangs on until he sees clearly once again that yes... he can share this with her. He doesn't have to hide.

He can show her.

Everything.

 _ **-end-**_


	3. 3 Gophers

**Scenes: Franco and Elizabeth**

by _Tessaray_

* * *

 **#3** **Gophers**.

He found the first one shortly after Kiki died. He yanked opened his sock drawer and there it was between a pair of solids and a pair of stripes, staring up at him with buck teeth and a red bowtie. He pulled it out, gave its plush little body a squeeze, tossed it on the bed — must be one of the boys hiding Aiden's toys again — and thought no more about it.

A few days later, he noticed another one on a shelf in his art therapy room — big and floppy, dressed in baggy denim overalls. One of his patients must have left it. But as he sketched alone during breaks, Kiki's face emerging over and over from the pages beneath his hand, he found it comforting to take the thing down from the shelf and keep it close, to pat it now and then, to smile back at its goofy expression…

This morning he's standing in front of the bathroom mirror staring at his pale reflection. He's just caught himself thinking about Kiki again, the sparkle in her voice when she would lovingly chastise him or try to prod him out of his comfort zones… and the horror of her loss is spiking through him, knocking him sideways until he has to grab the sink and brace himself. After several black moments, he gradually, deliberately relaxes his body like unclenching a fist, hauls in and releases a few deep breaths... and when he's steady, when he feels able to resume the mundane tasks of being alive, he pulls open the drawer where he keeps his shaving cream...

And there's another one. It's smaller, furrier, sporting a little green vest, and its huge buck teeth are grinning up at him.

He picks the thing up, gapes at it a moment… and is overcome by a visceral, months-old memory of being playfully hit about the chest and shoulders with a sofa pillow…

 _They call you the gopher…_

 _Oh, they do? Is that what they call me…?_

A bulb clicks on in that dense brain of his and he barks out a thoroughly tickled laugh, suddenly feeling lighter than he could possibly have imagined. Through the open bathroom door, he notices a quick movement in the hall and sticks his head out to find a giggling Elizabeth flattening herself against the wall...

"You!" he cries. "You've been planting gophers!"

She leaps at him, throws her arms around his neck, "Took you long enough!" she says, and rains happy little kisses over his face until he's helpless with laughter. He picks her up, twirls her around… and for the first time in weeks, the tears in his eyes are tears of joy.

 ** _-end-_**


	4. 4 Bad Dreams

**Scenes: Franco and Elizabeth**

by _Tessaray_

* * *

 **#4 Bad Dreams**.

Elizabeth jerks awake from a sound sleep, feels Franco's nude body, hot and fitful in bed beside her. He's muttering, gasping, voice rising in the darkness toward a sharp wail she knows from experience will wake him, and then he'll be shaken and haunted for hours afterward…

If she asks about it, he'll tell her, but she no longer asks. Not because she doesn't care, but because she can't bear making him relive his nightmares. Kiki, Jim Harvey, moments of terrible violence from his past... or more recently, in the two months since Ryan Chamberlain nearly killed him, the recurring dreams of demons disguised as people he loves. And he's told her how those always end — with a knife plunged deep in his gut, with him bleeding out, reaching for Elizabeth, calling out for her as she turns away…

Now, as he struggles in sleep beside her, she's determined to head off this nightmare as she has so many others. She slips her arm around his waist, snugs up close behind him, holds him tightly until his breathing grows more regular… and with a final shudder, he relaxes. Relieved, she caresses his overheated skin, her fingertips drifting, finding the still-ragged scar on his stomach and giving it a reflexive healing touch before resting her palm over his heart. The gentle beat reassures her, makes her think that she might be able to slip into a light, vigilant sleep… when she feels his large hand slide gently over hers.

"Another dream?" he says roughly.

"Shhhh, go back to sleep," she whispers, hugging him close.

He moves deeper into her embrace. "In a bit," he purrs. "You feel good." He's quiet then, but she can feel his energy shifting, growing mischievous… and she smiles because she knows what's coming…

"Road Kill Remover," he says with a hint of glee. "You know, scraping up three-day-old possum carcasses."

Elizabeth chuckles into his back. "You and this game. Why on earth do you waste time thinking about Jordan?"

"I like imagining what she's been reduced to. It's petty, but comforting. Oh, I know — security guard at one of those really boring museums, in the worst room where nobody ever goes, but she can't sit down or read, and she just has to stand there and stare at the same crappy paintings all day every day, and contemplate how her rank incompetence cost this city millions."

"And almost cost you your life," Elizabeth says, ever-present pain blooming.

"Almost cost me you."

His voice is so forlorn in the darkness that she sits up, switches on her bedside lamp and runs her hands through her hair with a grunt of frustration. "Franco, for the hundredth time, that was just a bad dream!"

He turns over heavily, blinking in the sudden brightness. "I know," he says, and hesitantly trails his fingers over her forearm. "It just… Elizabeth, it seemed so real. It _felt_ real. It felt—"

"—Babe, it _wasn't_ real." She takes his face in her hands and fixes him with stern eyes. "It was a dream, or maybe it was your meds, but I never sat on your hospital bed after you nearly died and accused you of breaking trust with me and the boys, okay? It didn't happen. I would never have done that, and I would never abandon you for something so completely _not your fault_."

He nods, expression intense, like he's struggling to absorb what she's saying this time… to _get_ that maybe he really was a victim in Jordan's cruel, ill-conceived plot to catch Ryan, and not weak, stupid, easily manipulated…

Elizabeth pulls a deep breath, tries to calm herself, but she's as raw as the day she watched Franco get dragged out of his art therapy room in handcuffs…

"Franco, please, _please_ stop blaming yourself. Even before the facts came out at Jordan's disciplinary hearing, I knew there had to be more to the story," she says, squeezing his cheeks between her palms. "So listen up, you: You were under tremendous stress, first from Kiki's murder, then from being falsely accused… and those photos Jordan threw in your face, Jesus! You weren't thinking clearly — how could you? — or you'd have realized your legal rights were being trampled, and that you had options beside agreeing to plead guilty! And of course, you would have been able to talk to Scotty and me, if that bitch had had an ounce of regard for the law. Or an ounce of ethics, morality, decency... seriously, losing her badge was way too good for her!"

"Shh, Elizabeth," Franco says softy, distress at _her_ distress flaring in his eyes. "It's over."

"I know," she says, forcing out air through gritted teeth, shedding as much of the upset as she can. "What she did to you just... it just makes me crazy."

He reaches up, touches the thin shoulder strap of her nightgown. "I hear you, okay? I do. Everything you're saying is true. But I still should have—"

"— _Stop_ ," she growls, curls her fingers in his hair and gives his head a shake. "I'm fine. The boys are fine. In fact, Aiden had an assignment at school today. He had to write about his hero… and guess who he picked?"

Her heart swells as she watches his jaw work, his light eyes fill with tears. "Well, that's…," he trails off, swallows hard. "He's… he's a good kid."

"He is. And he loves you. We all do."

"Not Cam," he chuckles, but she hears the faint hurt in his voice.

"He's coming around," she says softly. "Besides, he's too busy with Joss to pay attention to us."

Franco shudders dramatically. "Can you imagine if they got together? Carly junior. How weird would that be?"

"Speaking of your exes," she says, with a half-teasing smile. "I like Curtis with Nina. He seems much more alive with her."

"It was pretty amazing how fast he dumped Jordan. I guess he didn't want to be married to a…," he pauses and waggles an expectant, encouraging brow at her.

Elizabeth bites her lip, thinks a moment. "Umm — a Promotional Mascot! Standing on a filthy street corner dressed as a hamburger, handing out flyers all day.'

"In August," he says.

"Perfect."

"Oh, wait, this is it — a Port-a-Potty Cleaner!" he says. At her grimace, he adds. "What? Somebody's gotta do it."

"True. In August!" she says.

"Perfect!"

She laughs, turns off her bedside lamp and scoots down beside him. As he wraps her in his arms, she lays her head on his chest, feels the gentle rise and fall, finds his heartbeat again… that huge, brave, ferocious heart...

"So," she says, warming in the heat of him, not wanting to sleep, wanting instead to hear the low rumble of his voice, to drift her fingertips over his taut stomach. "Any other thoughts about what you'll do with the millions from your settlement with the city—"

"— _Our_ millions, wife."

"Okay, _our millions…"_

"More of what we talked about," he murmurs, breath ruffling her hair. "You know, take care of the people we love, pay off the mortgage, college for the boys…"

"A donation to GH in Kiki's name…,"

"A wing in her name would be great," he says gently, as though picturing her. "I wonder how much a wing costs, anyway. Or maybe an endowment. I just… I want to turn this debacle into something good, you know? I just want to do good. For Kiki."

She leans up, finds his glistening eyes in the darkness and watches him watch her as she traces the outline of his lips, moved by the sheer beauty of him.

"I love you so much," he whispers, slipping his hand behind her head, drawing her down…

"I love you more," she breathes against his soft mouth, and then silently repeats the words as she loses herself in his deep, sensuous kiss…

 _I love you more._

- ** _end_** -


	5. 5 Home Now

**Scenes: Franco and Elizabeth**

by _Tessaray_

* * *

 **#5. Home Now**

It was not a great day at the hospital. Grueling, in fact. My muscles ache, all I want to do is pour a glass of wine, prop my feet up... but when I open the front door, two things smack me simultaneously — the mouthwatering aroma of cookies and the blare of Elton John's _Crocodile Rock_.

No one is in the living room, so I shrug off my coat, drop it and my bag on the chair and move to the entrance of the brightly lit kitchen, the source of the sensory overload. The sight that greets me makes me cringe — flour coats nearly every surface, a crusty rolling pin and utensils are scattered over the floor, hardened lumps of goo dot the walls and refrigerator door, signaling a fairly enthusiastic food fight. But it fades to nothing when I see Franco, hunched over the steaming sink, dirty bowls and trays stacked on the counter beside him. His right shoulder is rising and falling with the act of scrubbing… and he's singing, loudly…

 _Holding hands and skimming stones, had an old gold Chevy, a place of my own…_

I can only stand there, a huge, stupid smile spreading over my face, moved beyond words by joy and gratitude at having him back in this house where he belongs. I imagine the evening he and the boys shared — _all my boys,_ hurling raw cookie dough at each other, slapping and play-fighting, hoots and helpless laughter as they destroyed my kitchen… and it's perfect. It's exactly the way it's supposed to be… and his time away, his time as _Drew Cain_ , seems as remote as a faded nightmare.

I start to speak, to mock-scold him, but hold my tongue. It's rare, in the weeks since he's been back, that I've had a chance to observe him simply being himself, fully inhabiting his own skin. I watch him sleep almost every night, of course, overwhelmed by love, protectiveness... terrified I might lose him again, that the reversal procedure is temporary and he'll open his eyes and gaze up at me from the pillow with that blank expression, not knowing me, not wanting me, vanishing from my life once and for all…

But this is different — he's in his own world, so blissfully unaware of me that I have to stifle a giggle… a giggle that quickly gives way to a fullness in my heart… then a tingling low in my belly as I watch him, my beautiful husband, simply standing at the sink, washing dishes…

He's taken up boxing since recovering his memories, and the work-outs are gradually transforming his body; his shoulders are broader and rounder, arms thick and cut. He's not sure why _boxing_ — thinks it might be one of the remnants he's taken to calling _resi-Drew_ — but it's been an effective way for him to channel the rage that sometimes rises and overtakes him like a summer storm. But even when he's calm, I've noticed that he doesn't carry himself as loosely as he once did; there's an alert tension now, a kind of… combat-readiness that eases only when I touch him, whisper to him, hold him close in our bed at night…

He rinses and shakes off the bowl he's been scrubbing, sets it in the drainboard, reaches for another. His hair looks soft, highlights glinting in the overhead light. We haven't discussed it, but I know he's as eager as I am for the military cut to grow out, and it's longer now, curling toward, but not quite meeting, the neckline of his dark blue T-shirt. I imagine reaching out, running my fingertips along the narrow swath of skin, feeling the softness and warmth, making him shiver, drop his head back…

 _While the other kids were rocking round the clock, we were hopping and bopping to the Crocodile Rock…_

He's deep into the silly song, his right arm moving rhythmically, his triceps rippling as he scrubs the next bowl. His back is so inviting — the perfect place to lay my cheek. I could slide my arms around his waist, hug him, reassure him — and myself — that he's safe, that no one will violate him here, that he's really home now… but I hang back, not quite ready to end this moment, this chance to simply admire the powerful, utterly masculine shape of him. My eyes rove freely, sliding down his narrow hips… and I have to swallow a burst of laughter when I see, on the backside of his jeans, a series of white floured handprints that are much too small to belong to him…

 _Oh, lady, mama those Friday nights, when Suzie wore her dresses tight_

 _And the Crocodile rocking was out of sight_

 _Laaaaa, la la la la laaaaa, la la la la laaaaa, la la la la laaaaa_

He's singing at the top of his lungs now, mangling the words, and when he gets to the _la-la's_ , he throws himself in with abandon, head bobbing, voice straining toward a falsetto that's just out of reach. The bowl he's washing slips out of his hands with a thud, making suds splash up. He tilts his head, rubs his cheek against the dish towel thrown over his shoulder and does a little dance step, filling me with so much giddy joy I can't take it anymore.

I move to his phone on the bar, tap the app icon, silencing the music. His head whips around, his hands still buried in the sink, but his body is now coiled like a spring. I bite my lip with regret — I startled him. I've been trying to be considerate, so damn careful…

"Sorry," I say, gentle as a caress.

"Hey," he exhales, posture easing, and he flashes me a shy, devastating smile.

I wait, and when he nods, I go to him, kiss his shoulder, run my hand down the length of his arm before ducking underneath. I position myself between him and the sink and look up into his face; his skin is flushed and damp from the hot dish water, and small tendrils of hair curl over his forehead. His eyes dance as I touch them, as I caress his cheeks, his newly re-grown goatee… and by the time my thumbs reach his full upper lip, I'm desperate to kiss him.

I hold his face in my hands, lean up on tip-toe, and he meets me, his lips parting and soft, kissing me with a presence and tenderness that takes my breath away. I draw back, see that his eyes remain closed as though savoring me, and it's all I can do not to climb up his body, right here, right now…

But I know we're not alone.

"So," I say, clearing my throat and dropping back, the edge of the sink hard against my lower spine. "What happened here?"

He opens his eyes, blinks, pulls a chagrined, guilty face. "Oh, uh… Aiden roped us into making Christmas cookies," he says, his breath warm and sweet.

I glance around at the mess. "And they are…?"

"In our stomachs, mostly."

"And the boys?" I say, hoping the answer is _elsewhere_..

"Upstairs. Suddenly remembered they had a ton of homework."

"And they left you with the clean up."

He smiles and I can't help but reach up and touch the crinkling corners of his eyes. Their color changes constantly, depending on the light, what he's wearing, even his mood — but now they're the purest hazel, the most intimately _him_ , and it's like seeing into his soul.

"I don't mind," he says softly, lowering his mouth, brushing his lips over mine again.

"I know you don't," I whisper, breathing his breath, tasting him, letting him fill me until my bones begin to dissolve.

His hands are deep in the dishwater. I know he won't touch me while they're wet, so he's essentially at my mercy… yet his arms are tight on either side of me and I feel wonderfully dwarfed, engulfed by him. I run my palms over his sculpted chest, his taut stomach, slowly kissing and nipping the salty, sensitive skin of his throat, nuzzling a spot that makes him gasp and press against me.

"Is this okay?" I ask, withdrawing just enough to look into his face for a sign of resistance or a shadow of a memory he might not share with me.

But his lips are parted, eyes heavy-lidded. "This is great," he says, voice so gruff and low I believe him.

I let my hands move freely, sensually through his hair, over his broad back and shoulders, loving the size and solid strength of him, remembering how tentative and careful we were his first night back, exploring like virgins… until our bodies suddenly seemed to recognize each other, overriding our minds with an explosive joy and hunger I haven't quite recovered from…

I rock my hips against him, feel his growing erection, and heat flares in my veins, desire for him strums low in my belly like fingers…

"Leave this," I whisper against his mouth. "We'll finish up later. Let's go upstairs."

I move to duck under his arm again, but he locks it firm, trapping me. I'm confused, blink up at him… and find that his eyes are closed.

"I just want to… feel this for a second," he says. "All of it. I want to be here, fully, and know that I'm here. I don't want to take anything for granted. Does that make sense?"

Tears sting behind my eyes and I nod, wrap my arms around him, press my head to his chest and hold him as tightly as I can, loving him, rooting us both in this bright, messy kitchen, in the warm aroma of vanished cookies, the muffled, goofy sounds of video games wafting down from above…

He presses his lips to my hair. "This, right here… this is home." He pulls a deep breath, releases it slowly, and I feel him relax in my arms… finally, completely. "I'm really home," he whispers.

We remain there, nestled in our embrace until the energy between us begins to shift and deepen into a heated, powerful yearning…

"Go on now," he murmurs, voice husky. "Take off your clothes. Get into bed. I'll be up in a minute."

He doesn't have to tell me twice.

- _End_ -


End file.
